#hortense calisher

[asfaltics]

putterings, 373-371

                                                  into strange paths so nearly featureless. lists, mislaid names, a matter of spectroscopy, Nomen mutabilia sunt                                                   away and was heard freedom, see the forbidden table, puttering at its pages not strange. how it came about, no idea res autem immobilis                                                   “Names are mutable, things immovable.”  

puutterings     |     their index     |     these derivations     |     20231116  

[puutterings]

Nomen mutabilia sunt; the forbidden table. not strange

        “In accordance with which,” said Fourchette, “in the matter before us, we shall see what is set down here in the matter of names.” Drawing closer to him a loaf-shaped book concealed until now by the black folds of his sleeves, he began puttering at its pages. “Nomen collectivum ... generale ...” he muttered to himself, and for what seemed minutes fell still. Silence covered us, the long, shared public silence, a canopy upheld by participants who dare not, until the signal, lower their arms.       “Ah,” said Fourchette. He pushed the book from him and at the same time snapped on the light at the lectern. In its arc the eye of the clerk blinked, patient and uncynical, the farthest figure in a hold picture, but still drawn in along the mater painter’s invisible radial lines.       “Names are mutable, things immovable,” said Fourchette. He poked a finger over the rostrum...       “Nomen mutabilia sunt,” he said... “res autem immobilis.” He fell silent again before he gave out the reference... “Six, Coke, sixty-six.” ₁

At home, though her mother could not eat, May ate heartily. Rosily cool, tonight she would neither cry nor suffer, in order to let her mother make amends. Afterwards, she was taken into her mother’s bed — for comfort — but though she submitted to being held hard against that yearning, nursing body, she did not relent. After a bit, she crawled out, toddled softly away and was heard puttering in the studio, on the forbidden table. ₂

... But my father, strangely enough, as you might think, for a man who is always reassuring people that he and they have “all the time in the world,” is already up and about, puttering in the kitchen for himself, as he loves to do. Not strange. ₃

—

all Hortense Calisher —

1 False Entry (1961) : 182 borrowable at archive.org : link 2 Textures of Life (1963) : 223 borrowable at archive.org : link 3 “Time, Gentlemen!” in The Collected Stories of Hortense Calisher (1975) : 165-176 (168) borrowable at archive.org : link

Hortense Calisher (1911-2009) wikipedia : link

Hortense Calisher (obituary) “A prolific New York author, she more than made up for a late start” Christopher Hawtree, The Guardian (25 March 2009) : link  

[importantwomensbirthdays]

Hortense Calisher

Hortense Calisher was born in New York City in 1911. Though Calisher did not publish her first novel until she was 50, she was a prolific writer with a distinguished career, with a body of work including fifteen novels, three memoirs, and six short story collections. She was a three-time finalist for the National Book Award, and the recipient of a Lifetime Achievement Award from the National Endowment for the Arts. From 1986 until 1987, Calisher served as president of PEN American Center, and from 1987 to 1990, she was president of the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters.

Hortense Calisher died in 2009 at the age of 97.

[fuckyeahmrleonardcohen]

Leonard Cohen and American novelist Hortense Calisher, New York City, April 1969 (Photo by David Gahr/Getty Images)

[dank-mishima]

Mishima's ritual death, as the culmination of years of training for such an act, side by side with a body of work increasingly invested with the idea of death as the ever‐present blood‐beneath‐the‐skin and the possible grail of action, asks us to put his life on the level of his art and past it. What does it mean when a writer wants to transcend words? And knows to the end that we must and will re-examine his life? Mishima's death and words put these matters once again in their vital juxtaposition. Even if one ascribes his suicide to a certain madness either by occidental terms or modern Japanese ones—as I do not—there are few writers at the moment of whom one can say the same. Rereading all the novels and plays available in English, plus the “confidential criticism” (as he called it) in “Sun and Steel,” an extraordinary essay of the most compelling clarity published early in 1970, the year of his death, and now “Spring Snow,” the first volume to be translated of the tetralogy “The Sea of Fertility,” whose final words were written on the day of it—one conclusion rises pre-eminent, of which he was as aware as any of us.

Visualize that extravagantly formal mutedly blood‐slippery act as one will, as most of the world has even aided by a few pre‐lien shots on television. Scrutinize that last day of his, plotted for a hero who knows he would fail. Place his suicide in the Western context or the Japanese one — or in both where I think it most significantly belongs. Trace his progression toward it, hear in every book its pure, fell sound. True, only his last act has given us this after‐event wisdom. But has he succeeded in that final coincidence of flesh and mind he hoped for, of dual chariots whose crash was to be the final bloom of existence? For himself, perhaps an assumption into the tragic life; for us, an echo. Perhaps he attained the nonreflection he wanted. He leaves us with his lifetime of reflection. The words—to the end his avowed snare yet as much his weapon as the dueling staves he used in kendo — are what remain most clear.

[dewitty1]

EXTREME MAGIC, A NOVELLA & OTHER STORIES  – January 1, 1964 by Hortense CALISHER

A book I saw in my college library. don't even care what it was actually about

[specgram]

“The words! I collected them in all shapes and sizes, and hung them like bangles in my mind. ”

—Hortense Calisher

[swartzmark]

While others of his age still shared a communal wonder at what life might hold, he had long since been solitary in his knowledge of what life was.

Hortense Calisher, “In Greenwich There Are Many Gravelled Walks” (1950)

[supersays]

All you can hope to be is worthy of the company you respect.

Hortense Calisher in an interview published in The Paris Review (Issue No. 105, Winter 1987)

[iquotation]

"This is my answer to the gap between ideas and action - I will write it out."

Hortense Calisher

[novemberraspberries]

❤️ // #Love Organic Honey Wonderland // ❤️ • * • ❤️ Art, Food, Love and Music is a common language that many of us speak. 🖼🥝🥒🧅💙🎵 Why? 🧐 Cos when we learn to practice it, we will find ourselves, sense of contentment, joy and peace from it. It is ‘Homemade’ and is inside everyone to enjoy all these! 🤪 (Hortense Calisher) and (Clare Farrow)’s books that has explained all these can be found at @strandbookstore and @kinokuniyamalaysia ! 🥳 • • • ❤️ This final week, we will have fun playing with Honey, from food to face masks, while learning more about #Asia and #Geography . 🥰😘 @pinterestindonesia is my favourite place for artistic inspirations and @healthline to see how honey can benefit us! 💛 • • • ❤️ Whether we are aware or not, but researchers have shown that our jobs, hobbies and careers, is linked to our food or how we prepare it. 🤪 hmmm, I guess this will be a funny ride as we discover how all these are linked! 🤓 • • • ❤️ I promise to be calm 😎 while having fun at the same time with Yummy #Honey and #Music at @lazada_my , and the link is in the bio; 🤓 1. Honey Soy Garlic Chicken Wings 8th July, Wed, 12pm • • 2. Sweet Potato Chicken Salad 9th July, Thurs, 12pm • • 3. Honey Parfait Cereal 9th July, Thurs, 4pm • • 4. Baked Honey Cauliflower and Chicken 10th July, Fri, 12pm • • 5. Fancy Honey Beauty Face Masks 10th July, Fri, 4pm • • • ❤️ [John 14:27] “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you: not as the world gives, give I to you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” • • • ❤️ A Raspberry’s Takeaway: ⭐️ Honey and all its wonderful benefits are simply awesome, @nationalgeographic will explain more in details how honey is collected! Another dose of sunshine ☀️ for you is @thehopeletter who will remind you to have hope in all that you do. ⭐️ • • • ❤️ This is Real Time, Real People. Seeeee You Theeereeee! 🥰 • • • #novemberraspberry #lazada #endorsement #collaboration #lifestyle #malaysia #classical #classic #chickensoup #honeybee #home #homemade #homemadefood #homemaker #classicalmusic #piano #flowers #fashion #christianbloggers #christian #asia #faithblogger #blogger #lifestylebloggers #nationalgeographic (at Malaysia) https://www.instagram.com/p/CCVueF3JDRR/?igshid=ttutazdt91kn

[ariestess]

All you can hope to be is worthy of the company you respect.

Hortense Calisher

[babaalexander]

Great Birthday Greetings to Authors & Politicians Born on December 20 Sandra Cisneros Leandra Medine Morrie Schwartz (1916-1995) Victoria Tornegren Adam Clark Keira Rumble Carina Adly MacKenzie Claudia Lars (1899-1974) Hortense Calisher (1911-2009) Sky Gilbert Andrei Codrescu Vasil Iljoski (1902-1995) Kelly Augustine Jamie Nash Friedrich Robert Faehlmann (1798-1850) Karen Moncrieff Jacki Gentry Stephen Morehouse Avery (1893-1948) Lisa Loomer Everett Greenbaum (1919-1999 Sonny Perdue Fahmida Mirza Sheila Klinker Ike Skelton (1931-2013) Arturo Alessandri (1868-1950) #SandraCisneros #LeandraMedine #MorrieSchwartz (1916-1995) #VictoriaTornegren #AdamClark #KeiraRumble #CarinaAdlyMacKenzie #ClaudiaLars (1899-1974) #HortenseCalisher (1911-2009) #SkyGilbert #AndreiCodrescu #VasilIljoski (1902-1995) #KellyAugustine #JamieNash #FriedrichRobertFaehlmann (1798-1850) #KarenMoncrieff #JackiGentry #StephenMorehouseAvery (1893-1948) #LisaLoomer #EverettGreenbaum (1919-1999 #SonnyPerdue #FahmidaMirza #SheilaKlinker #IkeSkelton (1931-2013) #ArturoAlessandri (1868-1950)

[dailyquotes24]

Hortense Calisher

http://dlvr.it/PzfPRb

[victoryliononline]

Anita Desai: Every once in a while, a short story pursues you

As the writer becomes 80, she reflects on how tales briefly told are currently under wont of returning

I was always a scribbler. As soon as I was coached the alphabet I pent even before I could spell so that I was always persecuting everybody in private households( includes the cook who knew no English) How do you spell live? How do you spell tree, flame, fledgling, fish?( He responded by making me a superb offering on my birthday of an inkwell carved out of soft soapstone, which I unfortunately spoilt by running real ink into that tender, decorative object .) I crowded notebook after notebook sat on a cane stool at my round light-green table and was named, with an understandably resigned sigh, The Writer in the Family.

What was I writing? Consciously, with awareness and meaning, relatively limited. I simply had an implore to make all that is I considered, hear and experienced on paper, in ink. I had little awareness of categories journals were bibles to me, the imposing leather-bound bibles behind the glass on my mothers bookshelves, the shabby, dog-eared paperbacks on my siblings shelves, and the exciting, inviting ones in all their diversification in the bookshop where I devoted my pocket money. I cant remember when I learned to differentiate between the short story and the novel no, actually, I can: it was when I first decided to send a piece out to be published( producing was important, I knew writing had to be in etch if it was to earn its mention ), and it was, of course, of a short section to fit into a magazine or magazine. But I was also always writing at length with the idea of a book, a suitable record, in my thinker, and a part of me concluded short floors to be neglected novels.

But a short story is not a failed fiction any more than a novella is an extended short story. Each has only one altogether different specified of such standards and upshots. Length is one of them, but portions run wildly. As Hortense Calisher mentioned, How long should a short story be? As long as a piece of string. I mean to tie down the allotment with. I like her practical, workmanlike coming, but there is, in addition, the element of possibility. How did one section I pent be brought to an end a short story, another increase, unwrap itself, saunter, digress and crusade on to a track, a road to a further destination novella, or novel?

It is all a matter of instinct, certainly, and expedition a conviction that dawns on one, while one drives, that one has said what one set out to say: there is no need to go further. It may be really one tiny chapter, stumbled on unusually, a glimpse out of a opening, the transgression of light on one object while bypassing another, that opens one pause and for some reason is not forgotten. Why has it stayed in the mind when so many other thoughts, encounters and know-hows have turned into a blur and disappeared? And when one has acquired the responses to that the tale is done. It can come to one swiftly or it may take long, very long, to discover. In the short story, it need not be pursued further. Many scribes have commented on its identity being closer to a rhyme than a novels.

I have written only a few short fibs that have me with that sensation that one craves: Ah, I have done what I set out to do , no more is needed. The legends that constitute my new mustered volume are those that I objective on that note. For the most side, I have taken longer and watched the stone Id flung into the pond procreate ripples that diversify considerably, reverberation on gurgle, arc on arc, struggling to reach the far coast, and pondered: where will this get? How will it end? And that search has turned into a novel.

It is the latter mode that I have mostly espouse. It is the one that renders space both dangerous and forgiving, and lays one open to what may be years of discouragement, gloom, incredulity and segregation while one considers alternatives, makes one tack and then another, sees missteps, redresses them, picks oneself up and strives on, only gradually building up the momentum needed for narrative. But while to participate in so much better that is baffle and exhausting, one may be granted briefly and sporadically that inexplicable breath of breeze that comes up unusually, generate a ruffle, a incite, a ebb that lunges one send and routes one soaring, voyaging, hovering through space and time.

It is the pursuit of that elusive and inexplicable sensation that one attempts in the short story, so different a structure. Instead of those long pulls in which a novelist becomes stranded, the short-story columnist must launch forth on what is a high-wire behave, refusing to look back or down into the abyss, running the length of it at a sprint so as not to lose balance: rapid, quick before you fall! You may go back and start all over again, or change sentences and places, but that initial suggest must maintain its necessity from beginning to end.

Lightning that lampoons the light,

Brief even as bright. Percy Bysshe Shelley

In this, the short story is the more challenging shape as I realised when I had the temerity to coach the the time of writing of it to students who came to the creation of fiction as ended apprentices, simply because it was easier to fit into the room of a class, a call that length of cord again. But it was the awfully brevity and limited of the word that required talent, learning and understanding to make it labor, ie, to compose the desired effect.

But every once in a while, when completing that frenetic dash of the short story, even after this is the case in print, one finds it wont “lets get going” of one. It haunts one or, rather, one follows it because there is more to be said, more to be probed into, detected and disclosed. So every once in a while I have found, times and year later, a short story written long ago insisting on becoming a novel.

It is the experience I had when I wrote the short story The Accompanist. I detected then that I had put on paper all I knew very little about that minor figure of the melodic life, the musician in the background, barely detected, all tending being given to the maestro, the soloist. Was he content for it to be so?

Was he or not? There was so much in the life and exertion of that overlooked creator, and I wrote the novel In Custody to give him his due, although I changed the two personas into a poet and student. And again, eventually still, into the novella Translator Translated . One of my earliest short-lived narratives, Scholar and Gypsy, eventually carried on a whole new life as the romance Journey to Ithaca , something I did not even know until a book pointed out the development of the theme: the difference between the specific characteristics who appears the world is all we need and the specific characteristics for whom the world is limited; beyond it there surely lies more. The sought for that other world physical or spiritual that impels them on their tour, had carried on from the short story into the novel as a cartoon might lead to a draw. This subterranean element rising to the surface astonished me, I had not been is cognizant of that development.

Each form requires a different situate of cleverness, even cloths as an creator might necessity pencil or pen and ink, or watercolours or lubricants for one slog or another. Brevity and concision will do for one, while the other involves skepticism, mystery, mistake and staman. If one writes both, which affords the greater enjoyment? Now one , now the other that is the only answer.

The Complete Stories by Anita Desai issued by Penguin. To seek a facsimile for 14.44( RRP 16.99) go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p& p over 10, online fiats exclusively. Phone says min p& p of 1.99.

Read more: https :// www.theguardian.com/ volumes/ 2017/ jul/ 08/ anita-desai-short-story-writers-novelist-8 0-tales

The post Anita Desai: Every once in a while, a short story pursues you appeared first on Victory Lion.

from WordPress http://ift.tt/2u0xDsB

via IFTTT

from Tumblr http://ift.tt/2uJluWv

via IFTTT

The post Anita Desai: Every once in a while, a short story pursues you appeared first on Victory Lion.

from WordPress http://ift.tt/2t5Vh2c

via IFTTT

from Tumblr http://ift.tt/2tAXXby

via IFTTT

The post Anita Desai: Every once in a while, a short story pursues you appeared first on Victory Lion.

from WordPress http://ift.tt/2tAR7TA

via IFTTT from Tumblr http://ift.tt/2u6pAu2 via IFTTT

The post Anita Desai: Every once in a while, a short story pursues you appeared first on Victory Lion.

from WordPress http://ift.tt/2sY5PWc via IFTTT

[universitybookstore]

The words! I collected them in all shapes and sizes and hung them like bangles in my mind.

novelist Hortense Calisher, born December 20, 1911